tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25886522654203858472017-09-25T16:38:55.257-07:00Murrow College Backpack JournalismThe Murrow Backpack Journalism project enlists smart, dedicated and curious student-journalists to travel into some of the world’s most remote regions to report on stories that count.Brett Atwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14833796970383531832noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-67311987492127950482015-03-29T10:46:00.001-07:002015-12-08T14:12:47.155-08:00Galapagos Photos: Marc Wai<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jw3DnVK7eck/VRF5Re-sHqI/AAAAAAAAALo/e6hIC7lBn3M/s1600/IMG_8516.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jw3DnVK7eck/VRF5Re-sHqI/AAAAAAAAALo/e6hIC7lBn3M/s1600/IMG_8516.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"><span style="font-size: small;">Darwin's paradise</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r-oVy7PynDA/VRF5Q-a0ElI/AAAAAAAAALk/6rJ1-OwMXqE/s1600/IMG_8523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r-oVy7PynDA/VRF5Q-a0ElI/AAAAAAAAALk/6rJ1-OwMXqE/s1600/IMG_8523.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"><span style="font-size: small;">Conor recollecting the day's activities</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9LhVEIuc0RY/VRF5Yy8W58I/AAAAAAAAAMA/FKz2FcOpIGQ/s1600/IMG_8545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9LhVEIuc0RY/VRF5Yy8W58I/AAAAAAAAAMA/FKz2FcOpIGQ/s1600/IMG_8545.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"><span style="font-size: small;">Many abandoned ships can be found on the beaches around San Cristobal.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iU96REBbURM/VRF5hbF8ezI/AAAAAAAAAMk/ITM9cF0VywU/s1600/IMG_8591.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iU96REBbURM/VRF5hbF8ezI/AAAAAAAAAMk/ITM9cF0VywU/s1600/IMG_8591.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yWjgRbUBRm4/VRF6A46e25I/AAAAAAAAAOQ/T-jzfsXpK2Y/s1600/IMG_8698.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yWjgRbUBRm4/VRF6A46e25I/AAAAAAAAAOQ/T-jzfsXpK2Y/s1600/IMG_8698.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2fFpzu34Nio/VRF6Fu6cO5I/AAAAAAAAAOk/0OADayuq7Vs/s1600/IMG_8722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2fFpzu34Nio/VRF6Fu6cO5I/AAAAAAAAAOk/0OADayuq7Vs/s1600/IMG_8722.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Cl98Ey3AAvY/VRF6OD3xxtI/AAAAAAAAAPM/gtD79DMF-gY/s1600/IMG_8751.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Cl98Ey3AAvY/VRF6OD3xxtI/AAAAAAAAAPM/gtD79DMF-gY/s1600/IMG_8751.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nbMcP6Ph4Kc/VRF6cVqETBI/AAAAAAAAAPc/ZM5-ielpfx0/s1600/IMG_9275-4%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nbMcP6Ph4Kc/VRF6cVqETBI/AAAAAAAAAPc/ZM5-ielpfx0/s1600/IMG_9275-4%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" width="296" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"><span style="font-size: small;">Story time at the Galapagos</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Marc Waihttps://plus.google.com/100373520397143499122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-50554280880469173082015-03-29T10:45:00.002-07:002015-03-29T10:45:59.971-07:00Part Three: War with Mora<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">By Conor King Devitt</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I stared through the open gap in the airport wall where pushed luggage was appearing.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“C’mon, they said it would be here. C’mon!”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Suitcases. Beige, black and yellow. Backpacks of all colors. Industrial travel boxes. But no pistachio-colored duffel bag, the receptacle for a borrowed $500 camera and all of my damn clothes. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Sweat from the stress and disappointment greased my already filthy t-shirt and jeans as I watched with sinking dread as more and more bags were shoved around the racetrack.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>“It ain’t coming today</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I had communicated to the people at Jatun Sacha shortly after my arrival on Sunday that I would need to taxi back to town the following morning to reclaim my bag. The airline people had told me it was coming in then, and I was wishfully hopeful they were telling the truth. I had worn the same clothes through five airports, two nations and a sweaty island hike. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">At 8 a.m. on Monday morning Marc and I burned another twenty rumbling 45 minutes back to town. I walked up to the airport to check flight times. The day’s flight was landing around 1 pm, so we had a few hours to kill in town.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">We taxied to a beach close to Puerto Baquerizo Moreno and got our first taste of the islands’ biological idiosyncrasy. Unafraid sea lions lounged on the beach, occasionally dipping into the ocean to cool off and swim. Rigid marine iguanas crawled over the spiky, volcanic rocks. Blue-footed boobies and prominent pelicans scanned the waves, hunting for their next underwater target. Sunbathing travelers hiked around and snapped pictures. Out on one of the beach’s jutting points, a sea lion slept curled-up on the bright red indoor staircase of a retired lighthouse.&nbsp; To the west, the town’s harbor looked jammed with touristy skiffs, luxury cruises and an industrial freighter. As an overall spectacle, it was a bizarre array of ecology, modernity and tourism.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">After a few hours, we walked back into town. Marc elected to explore more, eager to harvest some footage. I lumbered back up to the airport for the third time in two days and watched as happy travelers claimed their luggage.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">My bag didn’t come. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Angry, I walked back into town. On my way, a tropical rainstorm struck with immediacy, soaking the island and any of its outdoor inhabitants. It felt refreshing to have some of the grime washed from my clothes, but my mood still mirrored the dark clouds trembling over my head. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I walked into the lobby of the mint-green Hotel Northia, a partner of the Jatun Sacha camp. Ruth, a Swiss lady helping out at the hotel, said she would check the airport for me tomorrow so I wouldn’t have to taxi back and forth again. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Ruth turned out to be godsend during our week in the islands. Fluent in several languages, she helped Marc and I navigate several tricky situations made even more difficult due our absent knowledge of basic Spanish (Marc studied the language a few years in high school and could comprehend a few words here and there; I knew little more than “hola,” “gracias” and “buenos.”).<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Ruth said one of the locals affiliated with the camp was friends with a fisherman, and that they could try and organize an interview for later in the week. I was extremely thankful – any progress on a potential story was promising, especially considering our remote home location in the forest.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Another truck transported us back to the camp, where we donned mosquito nets and began assisting Chicho with filling up Big Gulp-sized bags of soil. Mateo, his two year-old son, and Ariel, his 12 year-old nephew, also helped with process. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It was fascinating watching little Mateo stumble with a bag of soil the size of his torso over to the area where they were being stockpiled. Chicho didn’t force Mateo to do any work, and he spent a good portion of his time bounding playfully around the area like any giggling toddler should.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">However, he already seemed to be instilled with the value to contribute. Everyone was stuffing these little black bags – the two German volunteers, Ariel, Chicho, Marc and I – and Mateo didn’t want to be any different. Watching him, I realized as a young child he would already be well-versed in the ability to work hard – a virtue I wasn’t literate in until my mid-teens.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Lidia, the camp administrator, loaned me some random articles of clothing left behind by previous volunteers. It felt nice to be in a fresh t-shirt and clean jeans, but I was still worried about the camera.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Later that night, while playing cards with the two German gals, a huge crash reverberated throughout the forest. Marc, the two Germans and I ran down to where the sound originated from – the lean-to shed we had sat and filled bags in for several hours earlier in the day. It was leveled to the ground, collapsed under the stormy night wind.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>Glad that didn’t happen while we were sitting under it.</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">The next morning we prepped to continue the war with Mora. Machetes were sharpened, black boots were dusted off, gloves were slid on. As we began to march up the hill to the front lines, the camp’s landline phone rang. Lidia indicated it was for me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Ruth’s voice crackled through the speaker phone. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">“Co-nore, the airline people said your bag will hopefully come in today,” she said. “If it does, I will send it up with a taxi.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">A bit relieved (but far from certain), I caught up to my fellow machete-wielders and began the morning hack. The sun was undiluted and hungry as we cut our way through white, jagged Mora branches dominating the hillside. Our arms bled from a cacophony of small-needled cuts and ripped-open mosquito bites. The work was difficult but also tangibly rewarding. Looking back, you could admire the decapitated path you carved through the pest plant. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">After a few hours we retreated for lunch and a break. In the afternoon, Lidia offered us two options – we could begin rebuilding the storm-crushed shed or hike to one of the highest points on the island. Eager to enjoy and film a 360-degree panorama, we all elected for the hike.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Marc hiked with his camera in hand, running back and forth along the trail to get shots of the hikers and the environment. I lugged the tri-pod over my shoulder, hopeful the peak would offer a good landscape for some elegant stand-ups.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">It wasn’t any easy jaunt. Pressed against a sharp, often muddy incline, we hiked for well over an hour, at times crouched through cutting, overhead brush. Occasionally, Chicho would hoist Ariel on his shoulders, lifting him above the brush line to ensure we were climbing in the right direction. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">As we neared the pinnacle, a thick film of stony clouds rolled in, reducing our view to a few dozen yards. At the top I unslung the tripod and planted myself in the caked dirt, gazing at the mass of grey in every direction.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>Of course</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Marc and I were reduced to laughing. The fog had cemented the idea of a trip that seemed doomed by a string of small, compounding misfortunes. After sitting in the light rain for a few minutes, we deduced the clouds weren’t in the mood to leave anytime soon and decided to walk back down the slope.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Partway down we broke through the cloud layer and smiled at the refreshing view of blue ocean. It wasn’t the peak, but it was something. Marc propped up the tri-pod and snagged of the few shots of the south-central coastline. We took what we could get.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">After hiking back through the area we cleared of Mora, we stopped and lounged in the open-air dining hall, tired from the expedition. From the edge of my perspective I witnessed Fernanda coming down the other hill from her living quarters. She was carrying something.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i>YES!</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I ran up to her, smiling. She beamed and handed me my duffel bag, camera and all. I hi-fived her and joyously hoisted the bag above my head, exalting in the happiness of one gained comfort.<o:p></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div>Conor Devitthttps://plus.google.com/106640554595463976657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-45062479912801014092015-03-23T09:36:00.000-07:002015-03-23T09:36:22.079-07:00Pura vida, Costa Rica<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /><style>st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">3/19/15</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Aloha” can mean “hello” or “goodbye.” English has no shortage of words that can have drastically different meanings, depending on the context. I’m sure the same goes for other languages. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But I don’t think there’s a phrase that can match the functional diversity of Costa Rica’s favorite saying, “Pura vida,” which literally translates to “Pure life.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The phrase has been around for as long as locals can remember. According to Ignasio, one of the tour guides I spent some time with this week, it can be used in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any </i>situation and can have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any </i>meaning, depending on how you say it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">For example, he said if someone asks how the food is, you could answer “Pura vida!” enthusiastically and have it mean “good.” If it’s bad, though, you could make a face and whine, “Pura vida….”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s also a greeting, farewell and response to questions like, “How are you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I spent my last day with LAST, I thought about how fitting “pura vida” is to describe this country and its inhabitants. Everyone seems so calm and relaxed. Though the drivers are un poco loco, all the honking is what Selena perfectly described as “happy honking.” I never saw anyone shout at anyone else or act unkindly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The people who visit Costa Rica adopt the pure life quickly, judging by my experiences with the other volunteers.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyW_TNqnEFDZscj6ZWrGclHmmxs_aTRdSDASOVZgXRUWtfTgciX8BcAHhzu47Hyx3AiIP2Wz5xR0ln4LDNVBQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' />&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A friendly game of soccer while waiting on the beach. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">When it was time to say our goodbyes, I was sad. No, we hadn’t caught any turtles, but honestly, that would have just been the cherry on top of a fantastic week. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I learned so much about local culture, met people who have never been outside of Costa Rica and talked to others who have traveled the world. I saw animals and plants that I’d only read about or watched on TV. I tried so many new foods and, even though I couldn’t identify the ingredients in most of them without asking our host mom, I loved them all (with the exception of plantains. Plantains and I will never be friends). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">While the Murrow College sent me to Costa Rica to report, I’ll be going home with so much more than a video package. Thanks to the generosity of my school, my entire outlook on life has changed. I stepped outside of my comfort zone and embraced adventure. I’m so grateful for this incredible experience.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="ES-MX" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-MX;">Pura vida, Costa Rica. Until next time.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jy479AZbbHQ/VQ-xaCyY8QI/AAAAAAAAAH4/_m6zg3kIdzA/s1600/DSCN4239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jy479AZbbHQ/VQ-xaCyY8QI/AAAAAAAAAH4/_m6zg3kIdzA/s1600/DSCN4239.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset on the bike ride home.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Hannah Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05121279578634046523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-43703080793839009132015-03-23T09:33:00.000-07:002015-03-23T09:33:39.307-07:00“¿Como se dice ‘flour’? No, no es ‘flor.’” <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><h3 style="text-align: center;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="ES-MX" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;">And more <s>struggles</s>fun with espanol.&nbsp;</span></span></h3><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="ES-MX" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hannah Ray Lambert</span></span></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xdOSgvZ3IwU/VQ7im8INIII/AAAAAAAAAHU/tmXDrB3wtNk/s1600/DSCN4229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="ES-MX" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"></span></span><span lang="ES-MX" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-MX;">3/18/15</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="ES-MX" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Today I made a list of all the ways my basic knowledge of Spanish has come in handy so far. Really, it started helping within minutes of arriving in Costa Rica, when I had to pass through immigration. It helped with buses and taxis, finding wifi in public places, ordering food and talking with the non-English speaking members of LAST. It’s also helped me feel like less of a stereotypical tourist. I stick out enough with my blonde hair. There’s no need for me to draw more attention to myself by bumbling my way through every interaction with a local.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><div class="MsoNormal">The most valuable bilingual experience I have had here, though, is with our host family. Being able to communicate with our host mom and her two daughters has arguably been the richest part of this experience. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yesterday I talked with Griselda, 18, about the educational system in Costa Rica as well as her career/schooling goals. Today, Griselda and her younger sister, Yahaira, gave me a tour of the property. They showed me their garden and all the diverse, naturally growing fruit trees around the house including – but certainly not limited to – guavas, mangos, plantains, a type of apple and coconuts.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The latter fruit led to the title of this post. Using my broken Spanish, I tried to say that coconut has a lot of uses in the United States, one of those being flour.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Trying to explain flour (since I didn’t know the Spanish word for it) was a five-minute endeavor, even with Selena’s help. I’m pretty sure we got there eventually, though.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After dinner, Selena and I spent more than two hours talking with the family (and playing dominoes with Yorleni). Yahaira showed us her drawings and drew portraits of us.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DSSfuCZhWco/VQ7irX_XzoI/AAAAAAAAAHc/uhSTboE-z0I/s1600/DSCN4226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DSSfuCZhWco/VQ7irX_XzoI/AAAAAAAAAHc/uhSTboE-z0I/s1600/DSCN4226.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selena braiding Yahaira's hair one morning before school.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She also had us help her study for her English test tomorrow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, I always knew English was a silly, unnecessarily complicated language. However, trying to explain why “l” and double “ll” make the same sound to a sixth grade Costa Rican student really drove that point home. I’m incredibly lucky to have learned this crazy language from infancy; otherwise I don’t think I’d ever have the patience to figure it out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yahaira would read something (in English) like, “May I talk to Maria?” and then look at us for approval.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In Spanish, I would answer, “Si. <span lang="ES-MX" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-MX;">Pero es ‘may,’ no ‘my.’”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>She used her limited knowledge of English and I used my barely-functional Spanish.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="ES-MX" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was a truly beautiful moment.&nbsp; </span></span></span><br /> <div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fLjttRAz4F0/VQ7ivy9_TaI/AAAAAAAAAHk/_cEVvK9qSSI/s1600/DSCN4250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fLjttRAz4F0/VQ7ivy9_TaI/AAAAAAAAAHk/_cEVvK9qSSI/s1600/DSCN4250.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Griselda, Yorleni and Yahaira with the Cougar flag.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="ES-MX" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"></span></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xdOSgvZ3IwU/VQ7im8INIII/AAAAAAAAAHU/tmXDrB3wtNk/s1600/DSCN4229.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xdOSgvZ3IwU/VQ7im8INIII/AAAAAAAAAHU/tmXDrB3wtNk/s1600/DSCN4229.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not relevant to this post, but this is the family gatita. She's so small I thought she was a kitten, but she's actually the mama cat. People don't typically feed their cats in Costa Rica, so they have to work a lot harder for their food than my cats do.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="ES-MX" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"></span></span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xdOSgvZ3IwU/VQ7im8INIII/AAAAAAAAAHU/tmXDrB3wtNk/s1600/DSCN4229.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="ES-MX" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="ES-MX" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><span style="font-size: small;"> &nbsp;</span></span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="ES-MX" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;</span> </span></span></div>Hannah Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05121279578634046523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-40400478493077541812015-03-22T11:30:00.000-07:002015-03-22T22:38:08.777-07:00Part Two: Rumbling into a Mosquito Forest<div class="MsoNormal">By Conor King Devitt<br /><br />After waiting at the San Cristobal airport for an hour or so, we hopped in a truck taxi and rumbled 45 minutes across a winding dirt road to the center of the island, dense tree foliage and huge, leafy plants lining the edges on either side (if you didn’t guess, that’s foreshadowing). The white truck climbed partway up the slope of San Cristobal’s volcano. It was the heart of the forest.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We were heading to a nonprofit volunteer camp called Jatun Sacha. Its focus was on habitat reforestation. Hardy volunteers and even hardier full-time employees planted constructive vegetation, cut back invasive weeds and lived simply, enjoying time spent not working with hot meals and hammock-based naps.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The volunteers’ primary enemy was a nasty plant known in Spanish as Mora, otherwise referred to as the common blackberry bush. Mora has devastated San Cristobal, destroying habitats and making it difficult for farmers to plant homegrown crops. The camp’s administrator, Lidia, informed us (through a translator) that the bush had covered 70 percent of the island’s landscape less than 20 years ago. Organizations like Jatun Sacha and agencies like the Galapagos National Park have reduced that percentage, but it is still very prevalent. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Jatun Sacha was the end of the road, and its volunteers represented the front lines of attack against Mora on the south central section of the island. Volunteers would often spend their mornings and afternoons hacking at the sharp-needled plant with machetes, mosquito-netted hats protecting their faces from bites and their scalps from the harsh island sun. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>It’s going to be hard to write a story from up here</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The camp consisted of several open-air wooden and bamboo structures. Our lodging was a two-story building with a large second-floor deck and several partitioned rooms, each with a mosquito net-protected bed. That was a necessity. The bugs swarmed with fury.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The deck table’s scribbled graffiti advertised the personalities of previous volunteers.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>“Smell bad together…<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>Become beautiful together.”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>“Find your personal legend.”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>”Live to Love.”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><i>“Cream Cheese 4 lyfe.”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">No work was required of us the first afternoon. One of the regular workers, Chicho, led us on a creek-scaling hike through the forest. He didn’t speak any English and we spoke even less Spanish, but we managed to forge some communication. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Chicho, 26, lives at the camp with his partner, Fernanda, 20, and their giggling 2-year-old child, Mateo. Chicho has lived in the Galapagos his whole life and has worked at Jatun Sacha for two months. He’d been employed in several other hard labor fields previously, and his face and stride portrayed the hard-nosed toughness of a man unafraid to sweat. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">At one point during the hike, Chicho stopped and looked at an overhanging tree. He saw something.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Raising his worn machete, he cut down a small, perched guava. He sliced off the rounded ends and then split it in half, investigating its contents. Not satisfied, he tossed it and cut another, repeating the process. This one seemed to meet his requirements, and he handed the split fruit to Marc and me.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Guava,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It tasted amazing. I was snacking on guava probably around 30 steps earlier in the process than I ever had before.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We continued the tiring hike, sweat bleeding through my only set of clothes (I was hopeful my bag would arrive the next morning). First we trekked to a mid-sized waterfall and then a hillside vista, overlooking one corner of the island. Sandwiched between draping clouds and milky blue ocean, the horizon was indistinguishable and captivating.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">On the way back Chicho once again paused, eyeing a piece of fruit hanging from a tall tree to the left of the trail. This one was out of reach. He turned to his right and sliced down a long branch from a different tree. After skinning the branch of splintering limbs, he cut it into three sections.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fwoop! Chicho javelined the first piece of branch towards the fruit, missing but shaking up the branch. Fwoop! The second one made contact, almost severing it from its perch. Fwoop! As if predestined, the third cleanly knocked the fruit from its limb. Satisfied, Chicho wordlessly tromped off the trail and picked up the prize. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Agua,” he said, pointing at the machete. I dribbled some of the water out of my bottle and he spread it over the blade. Then he quartered the fruit – a rotund, yellowish orange.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Again, he handed the contents to Marc and me. I handed a section back to him.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Here,” I said, laughing. “You’re the one who actually deserves this.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Smiling, he took the slice of orange and lifted it appreciatively for a short second. Then he turned and continued hiking down the trail. In an effort to not get left behind, Marc and I inhaled our sections – again, they tasted amazing.<o:p></o:p></div>Conor Devitthttps://plus.google.com/106640554595463976657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-48753225931460989332015-03-21T20:28:00.002-07:002015-03-22T22:39:05.656-07:00Part One: A Blog Post with Baggage<div class="MsoNormal">By Conor King Devitt<br /><br />I find the cliché questions and answers surrounding exotic travel quite funny.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“How did it change you?”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“It really opened my eyes.”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“It made me thankful for what I have.”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“It was so real, you know?”<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Not to say that all or any of the sentiments are untrue. Clichés become so for a reason. Yet, as a group, they seem to exist in the worlds of <i>how</i> and <i>should</i>, while travel itself just <i>is</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Academia and career fields ask and answer with <i>how </i>and <i>should</i>. That is how they operate successfully, how one learns to navigate their difficult and unforgiving waters with grace. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">But apart from the blending routine of work and play, a journey just <i>is </i>something, without a systemized input, output or road map.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Mining any benefit from it involves experiencing that <i>something</i>. Something forking the straight road of stagnancy, forcing the mind to adapt to the unseen and unknown. Something more salient than the plodding circulation of academic work weeks and boozy weekends. Something activating your sense as a human being, alive and absorbing. Something that <i>is</i>.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">This week has been <i>something</i>. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We didn’t sleep on Friday night, electing to depart Pullman at three in the morning to catch a 7 a.m. flight out of Spokane. Jitters and last-minute tasks kept me awake until my alarm sung at 2:30. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The airport security guards were amused at our destination.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Galapagos Islands? How in the hell you swing that one?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Obviously they didn’t peg us as security threats. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Delta gate was surprisingly crowded. Midwesterners heading home for spring break. The fully caffeinated desk lady kept chirping into the intercom.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“We have a full flight, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “That means we need people to volunteer their bags for checking. It will be free! Please do so, because we’ll need to do it anyways and this will speed up the boarding process.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked at my bulging duffel bag.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>This ain’t making it on the plane</i>, I thought.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The elderly lady sitting next to me agreed. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Just check it,” she said. “It’ll be easier.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I lumbered over to the gate, duffel in hand. It held my sleeping bag, all of my clothing and one of the Murrow College’s cameras, on loan to me (approx. value: $500) for the week. The mustached baggage man reached out to tag my luggage. I didn’t relinquish it immediately.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m going to Quito, Ecuador,” I said. “You think this’ll make it there alright?”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh yeah, no problem,” the baggage man replied. “What you taking, three flights? Yeah, it’ll it get to… whatever that place is. Can’t pronounce it.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Alright, sounds like a safe bet. Makes my marathon travel session a bit easier, right?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Wrong.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our flights ate the duration of the day. Spokane to Minneapolis, Minneapolis to Atlanta, Atlanta to Quito. It was 10:30 pm by the time we cleared Ecuadorean customs. Finally, our first real destination. Just had to swoop my bag on the way out.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“Conor De-Vitt</i>, <i>please report to baggage claim immediately</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Shit. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My bag didn’t make it. Of course. Delayed by a day, set to arrive the next night in Quito.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“But I’m leaving for the Galapagos tomorrow morning!” I said to the baggage clerk, nervous sweat setting fire to my forehead. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s okay,” he said. “We send it there. We’ve done it before.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The clerk filled out a yellow slip and asked for a number to call.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“I don’t have one that works in the Southern hemisphere,” I replied.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">He penned a few digits on the back of the slip.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">“You call tomorrow,” he said. “Need to call to confirm.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">And that was begrudgingly it. I assumed there was a 50 percent chance I’d ever see my bag again. Marc and I left the airport and met up with the people arranged to take us into Quito, a local university student and his father.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We zipped along the Ecuadorean highway, central streetlights making the curving road look like a nighttime ski run at Snoqualmie Pass. After 40 minutes, we entered boxy Quito and pulled up at an apartment building.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We took the matchbox elevator to the 8<sup>th</sup> floor. Our host, Olga, was waiting for us. After dancing for a minute in what seemed like a glacier-fed shower, I fell asleep wearing a pair of Marc’s shorts and no shirt, feeling a bit under-clothed in the foreign night.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">We slept for about five hours and then scarfed a breakfast of mango juice and eggs. Olga’s husband quickly drove us back to the airport, 90’s American pop music blasting from his USB plug-in.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I had to figure my shit out before departing for San Cristobal Island. I tried dialing the yellow baggage slip’s two numbers on a payphone. Dead ends. Checked my e-mail on a pay computer. Nothing. Couldn’t find any Delta employees working yet on check in.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I combed the airport for offices, finding a secure hallway with signs pointing to the Delta office. Blazing past a security guard with rushed, butchered Spanglish, I found Delta’s door and knocked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A young man in a suit answered and assured me they would route my duffel to San Cristobal. It would arrive tomorrow, probably early in the morning. I was partially convinced.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">At 10 a.m., we boarded the plane to the islands. Our carry-on luggage was fumigated on the way, hopefully preventing the unwanted taxi service of any invasive species.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Three hours later, we landed. The island looked fairly desolate, but the pungent Pacific air tasted sweet and breezy. Marc and I hi-fived on the tarmac. We’d made it.<o:p></o:p></div>Conor Devitthttps://plus.google.com/106640554595463976657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-89266353113478504252015-03-21T09:02:00.004-07:002016-01-11T09:56:01.543-08:00Pura Vida<div class="MsoNormal">Pura Vida<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">By: Selena Alvarado</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The second day of sunburn is the worst. It is bad when you start to feel it in the shower after a day in the sun but once it’s all settled and gets comfortable it hurts. I have only been sunburned two times in my life prior to Costa Rica. The Costa Rican sun did me well. People warned me but I thought I was immune. Definitely a lesson to be learned for the future. I reapplied sunblock every other hour today and will continue this until I am back in the States. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Before I left for Costa Rica my uncle told me to make sure I say “Pura Vida” while I was here. I was not sure what he was talking about until I heard people saying it like a greeting. I asked one of the sea turtle teachers what it meant but she was not sure. I also asked our host family if they knew where it came from, but no one seems to know where it comes from. It is a mystery that I am going to try to solve once I get back to the city and have internet access. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SQcBHKGCRZc/VQzpxIN3rRI/AAAAAAAAAYI/JgFm8GidhZc/s1600/IMG_2726.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SQcBHKGCRZc/VQzpxIN3rRI/AAAAAAAAAYI/JgFm8GidhZc/s1600/IMG_2726.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Today we measured and planted mangrove trees. They are the only tree that lives in salt water. It is very crucial for these trees to be planted because the turtles feed off them. There are also lots of other creatures that live in the trees that are vital to nature like snakes and birds.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">The planting was nothing too exciting. It was just a lot of hard work and digging. I definitely hope that I will be able to get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow is our last day volunteering and we get to spend it out on the boat again. Hopefully we will actually see a few turtles this time!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ciao!&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Selena Alvaradohttps://plus.google.com/111583951807470660140noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-53152433691984180452015-03-21T09:00:00.000-07:002015-03-21T09:00:48.960-07:00Bikes and boatsHannah Ray Lambert<br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /><style>st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">3/17/15</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7ktHCusnLdk/VQzBaehjLEI/AAAAAAAAAG8/DjKiNdKZ9pU/s1600/DSCN4211.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7ktHCusnLdk/VQzBaehjLEI/AAAAAAAAAG8/DjKiNdKZ9pU/s1600/DSCN4211.JPG" height="240" width="320" />&nbsp;</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Our home for the week) </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Rise and shine! We had our first day of work today with LAST (Latin American Sea Turtles) and our alarms went off at 5:50 a.m. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our host mom made us a great desayuno and then took us by bike to La Playa Blanca. Biking to work gave us a chance to really take in La Palma. Shops were already opening their doors and people were off to work. It’s a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i> small town and, as we discovered this evening on our way home, there is no wifi anywhere. So, you are most likely reading this at least three days from now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At the volunteer site, we had a quick introduction to the project, then donned our swimsuits and got on the boat. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MOoVZhy51Vk/VQy_5NsLJsI/AAAAAAAAAGk/P_wlpJbuEaI/s1600/DSCN4231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MOoVZhy51Vk/VQy_5NsLJsI/AAAAAAAAAGk/P_wlpJbuEaI/s1600/DSCN4231.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;<span style="font-size: x-small;">(La Playa Blanca in the morning. This will all be covered in water soon)</span></div><br />Pascal and Audrey Chabanne led the group, since they’ve been here for two months already. Pascal is the resident vet. Both are originally from France, but have been traveling the world since August 2012. In one month they plan to visit Africa.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5iwEl8PupX8/VQzAnpaBqGI/AAAAAAAAAG0/WQFQ0yqhi2E/s1600/Day%2B4%2B(17).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5iwEl8PupX8/VQzAnpaBqGI/AAAAAAAAAG0/WQFQ0yqhi2E/s1600/Day%2B4%2B(17).JPG" height="320" width="240" />&nbsp;</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Margit is a graphic designer from Germany. She'll be traveling to Mexico after her time with LAST ends)</span> </div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Besides myself and Selena, there is a woman from Germany named Margit as well as a whole family from Canada. They won the trip from a “granola bar” company, which also sent a couple representatives along. That group is guided by Brad, who is from – drum roll please – Beaverton, Oregon.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--></div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /><style>st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults v:ext="edit" spidmax="1026"/></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout v:ext="edit"> <o:idmap v:ext="edit" data="1"/> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> </div><div class="MsoNormal">Selena and I got our workout in helping set the net in the water. Researchers at LAST use gillnets to catch the turtles so they can take them out, measure them, check their trackers (or insert trackers if they don’t have any), and collect tissue samples.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The current was unusually strong today according to Pascal. So even though we were swimming really hard, we could barely move along the net. Finally, it was in place and we all headed to the beach.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Where we waited. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And waited.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a great place to wait, though. Brad led a group of us into the jungle to look at a pair of scarlet macaws. We saw all sorts of vegetation too, from coconuts and almond trees to the ever-present plantains. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Selena and I also visited a newly planted portion of mangrove. Audrey said they are trying to grow the mangrove (trees that live in subtropical tidal areas) because it is a critical part of the ecosystem. Audrey said six species of mangrove grow in Costa Rica. They are the only trees that can convert saltwater into freshwater.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-VkJBJZln0QE%2FVQzAT3pphSI%2FAAAAAAAAAGs%2FjoCT-AxrGcY%2Fs1600%2FDay%252B4%252B%2810%29.JPG&amp;container=blogger&amp;gadget=a&amp;rewriteMime=image%2F*" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VkJBJZln0QE/VQzAT3pphSI/AAAAAAAAAGs/joCT-AxrGcY/s1600/Day%2B4%2B(10).JPG" height="240" width="320" />&nbsp;</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Adult mangrove in the back, saplings in the front)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">They also provide food for sea turtles and allow sea grass (another turtle meal) to grow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Basically, these trees are important. But for whatever reason they’ve decreased in number. Another part of LAST’s research involves figuring out why that is. For now, though, they’re working on bringing them back. Tomorrow, Selena and I will be helping.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">All in all it was a great first official day in Osa - though we did not catch any turtles. The only other drawback?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Despite applying sun block three times, the majority of my body still resembles a fire truck. Fingers crossed that it turns into a tan soon! </div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div>Hannah Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05121279578634046523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-79560402047245763732015-03-21T08:54:00.000-07:002015-03-21T08:54:29.953-07:00Buses<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">Hannah Ray Lambert </div><div class="MsoNormal">3/16/15</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At 7:50 a.m. it became painfully clear that we would not make our 8 a.m. bus to Osa. We sat in a stationary line of cars and buses, watching helplessly as motorcycles zipped past us. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Having an extra three hours at the bus station wasn’t an entire waste, though. It gave me the opportunity to have my second of these delicious confections in as many days.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k41v5LAIoZQ/VQyk2aKudyI/AAAAAAAAAFw/N_o3ue9TE-M/s1600/Day%2B2%2B(13).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k41v5LAIoZQ/VQyk2aKudyI/AAAAAAAAAFw/N_o3ue9TE-M/s1600/Day%2B2%2B(13).JPG" height="240" width="320" />&nbsp;</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I don’t know what exactly this is, but it is now my sole mission to figure out how to make it a regular part of my life. There’s some sort of maple frosting between the layers. Delicioso.</div>&nbsp; <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XSGL1iRbfHk/VQykAkcDbtI/AAAAAAAAAFo/QJcTouKbyM4/s1600/Day%2B2%2B(16).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XSGL1iRbfHk/VQykAkcDbtI/AAAAAAAAAFo/QJcTouKbyM4/s1600/Day%2B2%2B(16).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">We set up camp in this restaurant next to the bus station. Selena and I traded off watching the stuff so we could explore without lugging everything with us.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-USTl8Z9xBHY/VQyoqAbRZZI/AAAAAAAAAGE/MHKAzVJSQJQ/s1600/Day%2B2%2B(38).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-USTl8Z9xBHY/VQyoqAbRZZI/AAAAAAAAAGE/MHKAzVJSQJQ/s1600/Day%2B2%2B(38).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B7eP2Sk0fcw/VQyofsydz-I/AAAAAAAAAF8/VDbhj1Q3uBM/s1600/Day%2B2%2B(30).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B7eP2Sk0fcw/VQyofsydz-I/AAAAAAAAAF8/VDbhj1Q3uBM/s1600/Day%2B2%2B(30).JPG" height="233" width="320" />&nbsp;</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photogenic pup in San Jose. </span></div><br /><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, the next (and final) bus arrived to take us to Osa. The scenery started to change. A lot. After rolling through the narrow streets packed with colorful buildings, the bus wound through curving mountain roads. From there on, it was all green.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jk_IEXJkHP4/VQyrxXnvgkI/AAAAAAAAAGU/Yt4D6zuF4AQ/s1600/Day%2B2%2B(87)%2B-%2BCopy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jk_IEXJkHP4/VQyrxXnvgkI/AAAAAAAAAGU/Yt4D6zuF4AQ/s1600/Day%2B2%2B(87)%2B-%2BCopy.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument></xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles></xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]><style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style><![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">Eight hours later, we reached our final destination for the week. Tomorrow, we start work with Latin American Sea Turtles! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Hannah Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05121279578634046523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-2227949822099754892015-03-19T20:52:00.000-07:002015-03-21T09:03:46.716-07:00Our Last Day<div class="MsoNormal">Our Last Day<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">By: Selena Alvarado</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Today was our last day in La Palma and Playa Blanca working with the sea turtle conservation group. I am excited to go back home and finish up the school year but at the same time I am sad to leave this beautiful country. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We went out to the beach again to find turtles to save but unfortunately we struck out again. We waited for six hours but no turtles. We got to relax on the beach instead which was nice. The weather was not that great though. It began to rain after we set our net and made our way to shore. I can say that will probably be the only time I wear a swimsuit in the rain. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As I was swimming today I also got bit or stung by some sea creature. &nbsp;It stung like a shot at the doctor’s office for a good 10 seconds then went away. We were never able to figure out what it was but the biologist on site said it could have been a baby jellyfish. I can now say I’ve been stung by a jellyfish, right? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was tough saying bye to everyone at the sea turtle project but I am glad for my time here. This was a great opportunity I thought I would never have, but thanks to the Murrow College I am able to do projects like these. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ciao.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyHTJ589CtV6-5DYOw2DQ-RMYzqcgP4u94IJvpsxgfy7VM6DmLq28Fa5Hv0ciCt19KngrySEHVEfzhRHvzriA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Selena Alvaradohttps://plus.google.com/111583951807470660140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-32453692901120565652015-03-17T17:45:00.000-07:002015-03-21T08:57:42.866-07:00Pineapples Don’t Grow on Trees<div class="MsoNormal">Pineapples Don’t Grow on Trees<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">By: Selena Alvarado<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As long as I am in Costa Rica I will never go hungry. Our host mother provided us with a hearty breakfast, filling lunch to go, and had an amazing dinner waiting for us when we got home. I may never want to leave just because I know I would not have to cook for myself ever again. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After breakfast, our host mom rode down to the beach with Hannah and me just so we can familiarize ourselves with the route. We rode behind houses on grass and on rocky dirt roads. We knew we hit the main part of the town when we reached paved roads and knew we were close to the beach when the road turned back to gravel. As we rode along we passed a house that grew a lot of different fruits like bananas, papaya, and pineapple. I did not know pineapples grew on the ground until we passed that house. I think it looks so odd to see a pineapple growing on a plant. It looked like someone strategically placed the pineapple there.&nbsp; I always pictured pineapples growing on a tree. I was so very wrong. <o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bz0jTYG_4Rc/VQzCCxy-87I/AAAAAAAAAXw/iQBhIhKPQ1E/s1600/IMG_2797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bz0jTYG_4Rc/VQzCCxy-87I/AAAAAAAAAXw/iQBhIhKPQ1E/s1600/IMG_2797.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pineapples grow on a plant that looks like this.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our first day on the Osa Turtle Project was a success. After a brief orientation on the day’s work, we got on a boat and went out on the ocean. We helped set down a net so we can catch turtles and keep track of their well-being. Hannah and I went in the water to make sure the net did not get tangled. The whole time I was in the water the only thing I was thinking about was if a shark was going to bite me. I was so scared I kept looking underwater to make sure nothing was near me. Sharks are definitely one of my worst fears. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jyikSoMJPFc/VQzCou9LnGI/AAAAAAAAAX4/7lZg4MeF90I/s1600/IMG_2704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jyikSoMJPFc/VQzCou9LnGI/AAAAAAAAAX4/7lZg4MeF90I/s1600/IMG_2704.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the boat with research assistants Audrey and Pascal.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Sadly there were no turtles caught today which meant Hannah and I relaxed on the beach along with other volunteers. There is a big group of volunteers that are actually a family from Canada who won a trip to go to Costa Rica on this sea turtle excursion. It was a contest through a&nbsp;granola bar company that serves organic products. There are a few adults and a few children. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We attempted to search for WiFi everywhere we went but had no such luck. I honestly am puzzled on how people live without internet service. Having to quit social media cold turkey is a little rough for me but I can manage. <o:p></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Although I did get sunburned, I really enjoyed the day and cannot wait to start tomorrows work.&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ciao.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Selena Alvaradohttps://plus.google.com/111583951807470660140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-4135405163471961062015-03-16T16:29:00.000-07:002015-03-21T08:53:11.230-07:00La Palma?<div class="MsoNormal">La Palma?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">By: Selena Alvarado</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Hannah and I started our second day in Costa Rica bright and early. We had five o-clock alarm but the rooster next door sang just to make sure we were awake. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Half an hour later we were on our way to the Osa Sea Turtle Conservation main office. Our driver did not know what the place looked like and neither did we, so it took a few phone calls to get there. We were greeted by a young man who offered us coffee. Let me take a moment to recognize that Costa Rican cup of joe. With only a teaspoon of sugar to go along with it, it is by far the best cup of coffee I have had in my life. And I’ve had A LOT of coffee. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We met an older man from Oregon at orientation but unfortunately he was not doing the same project we were so we did not get to see him afterwards. He is a biologist who has studied sage grouse in Idaho and later moved to Oregon to work by the coast. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, orientation took longer than planned and we were rushed out the door, ran a few blocks, jumped in a taxi and headed out to the bus station. There was a lot of traffic and we missed our bus. This is when the adventure began. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sZaNqXx61es/VQyw33wwpMI/AAAAAAAAAXc/vQ7YUt4veAY/s1600/IMG_2653.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sZaNqXx61es/VQyw33wwpMI/AAAAAAAAAXc/vQ7YUt4veAY/s1600/IMG_2653.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All the traffic we had to sit through.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">We walked up to what looked like the main ticket booth and asked for a ticket to La Palma which is where our orientation leader told us to go. The man at the ticket booth pointed us to the direction of another booth where we could get what we were looking for. The next bus was leaving four hours from then. We had no other choice but to buy the tickets and call the sea turtle project people to tell them we were going to be late. Once we purchased our tickets and got our situation settled we sat at a café that offered WiFi. Of course the lady working made it very clear that I MUST buy something before she gave me the password. I went for a slice of bread that looked a lot like banana bread, it tasted very similar too. I am not sure what it was, but it was good and worth the WiFi password.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So I sat and ate and sat and ate and ate some more and finally our bus arrived. Hannah and I both asked: “Este autobus va a La Palma?” (“Does this bus go to La Palma?") When we made sure it was the right bus, we hopped on and began our journey to La Palma. I fell asleep for the first hour and half of the ride and when I woke up I felt like I was in a different country. San Jose is the hustle and bustle of Costa Rica, but once you venture out everything looks so serene and green. It was truly breathtaking and a picture cannot even remotely capture the essence of this place. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2xpfYIcxsH4/VQyuo8svGoI/AAAAAAAAAXE/-mdEVv1dtw8/s1600/IMG_2658.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2xpfYIcxsH4/VQyuo8svGoI/AAAAAAAAAXE/-mdEVv1dtw8/s1600/IMG_2658.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hannah and I on the bus to La Palma.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">During orientation we were told that we only had to take one bus to La Palma and it would take us straight there. So you can imagine my surprise when the man sitting next to me tells me that we are getting off soon and switching buses. I of course panicked because how can we be so sure we’ll get on the right bus again? Well we got off as we were told and waiting along with everyone else who was on the same bus as us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I went around asking “La Palma?” and pointing to buses to see which one it was. We found the bus, hopped on and continued our journey. All along the way we kept asking “Cuanto tiempo para La Palma?” (“How much time until La Palma?”) They would tell us either how far away we were in kilometers or how much time we had left. I would say we asked that question at least once in the hour. Especially when it started to get dark; Hannah and I were very scared we were going to miss our stop because it was so dark out and there were no signs indicating where we were. But we put the faith in our bus driver and two passengers and they made sure to tell us once we got to La Palma. I think everyone on that bus was happy when we finally got to La Palma: I am surprised there was no applause as we exited the bus. <o:p></o:p></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ks2f1eJ0KkU/VQyw4PuxPNI/AAAAAAAAAXY/tnRQAGemVmg/s1600/IMG_2675.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ks2f1eJ0KkU/VQyw4PuxPNI/AAAAAAAAAXY/tnRQAGemVmg/s1600/IMG_2675.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My bed while I stay in La Palma.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I write this as I sit on the edge of my mosquito netted bed at our host family’s house in La Palma. We are going to have another early wake-up call and ride bikes down to the area where we’ll be working on the sea turtles. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ciao.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div>Selena Alvaradohttps://plus.google.com/111583951807470660140noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-9700414124676112242015-03-15T19:23:00.000-07:002015-03-15T19:23:23.549-07:00The Journey Begins<br />Hannah Ray Lambert<br /><br />Last night I left the Portland rain for my first non-North American international experience. I arrived in Costa Rica approximately eight hours later, where it was 80 degrees and sunny.<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Not a bad way to start spring break.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Travel-wise, I consider myself very lucky. Everything went as smoothly as I could have hoped, especially considering the temporary closure of the San Jose airport Thursday following the Turrialba volcano’s most powerful eruption in 20 years. The volcano spewed ash that reached areas approximately 30 miles away. I'm extremely grateful the eruption did not interfere with my flight. </div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Fast forward a few hours and here I am in Cedros with fellow Murrow student Selena Alvarado. We are staying the night with our host family, la familia Marchena. Our room has a balcony overlooking the bustling street below. Bikes and buses roar past and cars honk frequently.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PTHZjDPTxN0/VQY2b336k4I/AAAAAAAAAFM/dnZzPbSbLYc/s1600/Cedros%2B(26).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PTHZjDPTxN0/VQY2b336k4I/AAAAAAAAAFM/dnZzPbSbLYc/s1600/Cedros%2B(26).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The people have been wonderful and my basic knowledge of Spanish has already come in quite useful since no one here speaks much English. A friendly neighbor gave us a tour of the local “naturaleza” or “environment,” showing us the mango and plantain trees that will bear fruit in the summer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Our host mother even showed me some remnants of the ash that settled on our balcony. She ran a finger over the glass table, showing me how it was still coated with gray dust. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have already been surprised by both the cultural similarities (for example, in the taxi to our host family, the radio blasted AC/DC. We also passed a Lenovo billboard bearing Ashton Kutcher’s face, and Coca Cola signs are plentiful) and differences.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">One of the differences in Costa Rica that really astounds me is the sheer amount of fences. Fences line the sides of nearly every road, only ending where another begins. Most are topped with circles of barbed wire or even razor wire. The homes in Cedros are all behind gates, also frequently crowned with wire. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j2t-8-cy8Qw/VQY2Sj4LGeI/AAAAAAAAAFE/vuN7zM8OGrY/s1600/Cedros%2B(21).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j2t-8-cy8Qw/VQY2Sj4LGeI/AAAAAAAAAFE/vuN7zM8OGrY/s1600/Cedros%2B(21).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">The rules of the road also surprised me, mainly because there don't seem to be many. Pedestrians cut through traffic to cross the road – our driver passed two girls waiting on the middle, yellow stripe of a four-lane road. Cars park half on the side of the road and half on sidewalks. A merchant had set up a small stand that took up a good portion of one lane. I’m not sure if blinkers are part of the driving lexicon either. We made it without any accidents, though.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was fascinated by the amount of graffiti. All the metal fences and walls provide a virtually unlimited canvas to graffiti artists. Leaving the airport, I stared out at the pictures splashed across the landscape. There were some words, but also cartoons and portraits. In Cedros, the artists seem to favor letters. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp; </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sfYAiazP0I4/VQY2OUqqudI/AAAAAAAAAE8/o5jlVYMhkT4/s1600/Cedros%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sfYAiazP0I4/VQY2OUqqudI/AAAAAAAAAE8/o5jlVYMhkT4/s1600/Cedros%2B(2).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BRkY4UAebUM/VQY2LKgfNKI/AAAAAAAAAE0/vCZUmAcnhL8/s1600/Cedros%2B(14).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BRkY4UAebUM/VQY2LKgfNKI/AAAAAAAAAE0/vCZUmAcnhL8/s1600/Cedros%2B(14).JPG" height="232" width="320" /></a></div>Tomorrow, we leave at 6 a.m. for our orientation with the Osa sea turtle project. After an day-long bus ride, we will arrive in Playa Blanca to report on and help with efforts to preserve sea turtles.<br /><br />Hasta la pr<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="es"><span class="hps">ó</span></span>xima!&nbsp; <br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div>Hannah Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05121279578634046523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-31150060755264240452015-03-15T18:51:00.001-07:002015-03-15T19:23:42.333-07:00Murrow Take The WheelBy Selena Alvarado<br />San Jose, Costa Rica<br /><br />There are two things that have taken me by surprise in Costa Rica. In the few hours after arrival I noticed Costa Ricans do not say "adios" or "hasta luego" as I would have guessed in a Central American country. Instead they use the word "ciao" as a salutation of farewell. I have a feeling I will be taking that word back with me to the States and using it often.<br /><br />The other shocking thing is the driving. I felt I was close to death while in the car with our taxi man. Drivers in Costa Rica do not like speed limits, turn signals or stop signs. However there was no accident--in my short ride. I believe the reason behind this is that everyone is a crazy driver. In the U.S. you have your crazy drivers and your safe drivers. In Costa Rica they are all crazy drivers! Our taxi man was incredibly nice and helpful and he was a SAFE crazy driver.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7YinwDxrAYs/VQYJfN8nvyI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/pe7DsGOUXzQ/s1600/IMG_2627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7YinwDxrAYs/VQYJfN8nvyI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/pe7DsGOUXzQ/s1600/IMG_2627.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Aside from culture shock, my traveling companion Hannah Lambert and I got to do a little exploring on our own once we finally arrived at our host family in one piece. We walked around the neighborhood which mainly consists of houses and a few restaurants and convenience stores. As we were walking, we found this beautiful alleyway formed by many trees and bushes. A man in a nearby house saw us admiring the beautiful landscaping. He asked if we wanted to see more plants, so we followed him deeper into the alley and uncovered a variety of different plants, from bamboo to bananas to plants with medicinal properties. There was also a plant that held a special place in &nbsp;my heart. There was a chayote vine which grows a vegetable that reminds me of a squash called chayote. The house I grew up in had a chayote vine alongside the gated fence. I remember when the chayote leaf would dry up, I would grab all the leaves I could and crumble them all up in my small hands. I do not know why I found this so amusing as a kid but I definitely remember enjoying it. I even was tempted to try that today, but I fought the urge to relive that precious childhood memory. It was definitely a little slice of home for me in Costa Rica.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Mfdc9xOlX4Y/VQYSQdLpSwI/AAAAAAAAAWs/joiMSRkCbFo/s1600/Sechium_edule_plantation_Salazie_dsc03258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Mfdc9xOlX4Y/VQYSQdLpSwI/AAAAAAAAAWs/joiMSRkCbFo/s1600/Sechium_edule_plantation_Salazie_dsc03258.jpg" height="157" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We also got to see a banana tree with bananas growing. Unfortunately they were not ripe enough to eat so we couldn't get a bit of this tasty treat that is main crop in the country.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iEgpGc3vbbI/VQYQQJvDxDI/AAAAAAAAAWg/itubWrNXYjE/s1600/IMG_2636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iEgpGc3vbbI/VQYQQJvDxDI/AAAAAAAAAWg/itubWrNXYjE/s1600/IMG_2636.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It's been a great first day in Costa Rica. Tomorrow we head out to Playa Blanca where we will be staying the rest of the week. We will be working on a sea turtle conservation project on the ocean. After a good night's rest I will be ready to take on the next journey in Costa Rica. Selena Alvaradohttps://plus.google.com/111583951807470660140noreply@blogger.com0Costa Rica9.7489169999999987 -83.7534279999999851.7311404999999986 -94.080576499999978 17.7666935 -73.426279499999993tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-81735865689445463122015-03-13T20:46:00.001-07:002015-03-13T20:46:55.574-07:00Islands of Complexity<div class="MsoNormal"><b>By Conor King Devitt </b><i><br /></i><br /><br /><i>What can I really do here?</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A weird question, I know, especially given the lucky circumstances. After all, I’ve been gifted a free trip – no expense unpaid, no hidden fees, no additional strings attached. Just the one requirement – I will report and write, tell a story and describe the issues, using all of the values and skills I built and learned here.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Murrow College selected me as one of the 2015 Backpack Journalism Scholars, both an honor and an opportunity. I am one of a few fortunate students who gets to soar across the world and test my skills in a location starkly different from the rolling hills, crackerjack cafes and red brick academic castles of Pullman, Washington.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My assigned destination is a historical, literary and biological favorite: Darwin’s Galapagos Islands, the geographic home court for the modern theory of evolution. Thanks to the college and all its benefactors, I will get to see species of plants and animals only associated with this isolated archipelago. Thanks to the college, I will get to meet some of the hardy people working on the front lines to preserve these rare pieces of global history. Thanks to the college, I will get to embark on one more globetrotting adventure before I graduate.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m excited for the challenge, the travel, the opportunity to prove myself. But as I complete pre-trip research, my mind has become increasingly haunted by this thought:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>What can I really do? What can I really say?</i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Galapagos conservation effort involves intricate global cooperation between governments and interest groups, science and money, lab examination and fieldwork. Hundreds of diverse, hardworking and nameless souls shoulder the weight of protecting the incalculable importance of the islands, contributing their time in science, money, advocacy, government and other fields I can’t even claim to know. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">These are the people whose jobs aren’t explained, whose missions are too specified to be articulated to the unknowing and uninvolved. Sure, the larger personalities associated with conserving the islands can come together and paint the different efforts in layman’s terms. They did just that for the book <i>Galapagos: Preserving Darwin’s Legacy</i>, a helpful guide in my own personal research.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">But even a project like that, written by the experts, is forced to reduce the intimidating number of complexities associated with the islands to superficial terms an outsider like me can understand. Its authors are people who have spent decades on the ground and in offices around the world spearheading these different efforts and relationships, and even they struggle to describe all that goes into protecting the Galapagos.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">So again, it begs the question: How can I, as a journalism student whose biggest scientific achievement is an A- in freshman biology, report on something so meaningful? I have one week in the islands, and I don’t wish to squander the opportunity simply enjoying it as a sunburnt tourist. However, I also don’t want to clock in a routine, glazed-over piece of reportage that is content to simply tell two sides and the five W’s, disseminating already-condensed lay knowledge into even simpler terms. &nbsp;Given my limited time and even more limited knowledge, what can I actually do to service the truth? How can I contribute?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I lobbed the question to Dr. Christine Parent, an evolutionary ecologist and an assistant professor at the University of Idaho. Parent has spent more than two years in the field studying endemic land snails on the Galapagos Islands, where there are <i>more than</i> 80 different species and subspecies. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Parent was bursting with knowledge – on history, organizations, projects, and current research. She didn’t have just a single answer to my inquiry (who would?) and instead chose to paint me a better picture of the islands as a whole, describing the hook to several interesting storylines I could explore.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Some I had researched already – like the nasty conflicts between local fishermen and conservation groups on several of the more populated islands, including San Cristobal, my destination for the week. The locals want to work, fish and support themselves. Conservationists want fishermen to stop harvesting resources from the islands’ one-of-a-kind marine ecosystem. And even though I knew a bit about the issue, Parent managed to layer my basic ideas with the kind of grounded knowledge one only accumulates by actually putting their boots on the island’s volcanic dirt. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Others storylines she introduced were completely new to me, like the recent financial issues plaguing the Charles Darwin Foundation’s research station on the island of Santa Cruz. A brief surf through the shallow waves of the web reveals little media coverage on the incident, despite the fact that it has been the archipelago’s primary research center since 1964. While the foundation’s press releases report that a recent upswing in donations have helped the station recover, I have a feeling there’s more story to harvest.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">After talking to Parent about the flux of issues flowing through the islands and the different opportunities to investigate them, I started to feel a bit better. I’m no expert and never will be, but that shouldn’t stop me from attempting to widen the sphere of public knowledge about the islands. I’m hopeful that once I’m down there I’ll be able to focus my gaze, discover a niche and put any skills I might have to good use. And if I manage to talk to the right people, read the right research and ask the right questions, I believe there’s a chance I could bring something of value back for readers. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">My paranoia would probably have seemed foolish to a veteran journalist. A seasoned professional could parachute in and rip a story out of the landscape, doing his/her job and scoring quality material in the process. Getting to worry and fret about journalism’s role and purpose in a place like the Galapagos is a luxury likely afforded by my own youthful idealism. However, I <i>get </i>to worry about it. That’s part of the prize. This is my trip, my project, my attempt at writing something real. And I intend to do just that.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Conor Devitthttps://plus.google.com/106640554595463976657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-17868082024367354992015-03-13T18:34:00.000-07:002015-03-23T15:39:37.596-07:00The Outcomes of Isolation<div class="MsoNormal">By Conor King Devitt<br /><br /><br />It’s going to be a marathon. Our expedition to the Galapagos begins on Friday evening with a 1.5 hour cruise north to Spokane. At 7 the next morning, we’ll fly three hours to Minneapolis, where we’ll change planes and soar 2.5 hours south to Atlanta. From here, we’ll hop on a 757 and jet 5.5 hours down to Quito, Ecuador. After spending a night in Quito, we’ll fly an hour to Guayaquil, Ecuador, where I assume we’ll be swept of invasive species and fumigated before our last leg. From Guayaquil it is a two hour hop to the island of San Cristobal, our toilsome final destination.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve experienced grueling, cross-hemisphere travel before, and I’m thankful this time I’ll be going with a partner – one of the college’s skilled senior videographers, Marc Wai. The last time I didn’t have that luxury. The last time, I went alone.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Weirdly, this will be the second occasion in two years I’ve embarked on a lightning-paced trek into the South Pacific. My first trip was a whimsical journey of self-discovery, an adventure that led me to another one of the globe’s most iconic and storied islands.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was the summer after sophomore year, and I was working 85-hour weeks as deckhand on a small cruise ship that paddle-wheeled its way up and down the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. I was making good money – more than I had expected, and realized I would have some splurge-worthy income sitting in my bank account by the end of the season.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I started looking into different travel opportunities. I wanted a prize – something that would keep my eyes focused and forward. Twelve hour days of manual labor under the violent, southern sun often made it hard to not think about quitting, and a non-refundable treasure at the end of the hunt insured I wouldn’t act on those impulses. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I also needed a purifier. Like others working in fishing industries, coal mines, aggressive car dealerships or anywhere were the balance between work and life is skewed, our social existence was a rollicking, unhealthy one, burdened by riverfront booze and fueled by nicotine and scorched coffee. After a summer of harsh living, I needed to get away, clear my head and cleanse myself in wholesome adventure.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I chose Easter Island, a location I’d been fascinated by for years. I wanted to gaze at the stone head statues, bathe in the extreme isolation and surf off of the sandy beaches. Known as Rapa Nui by the locals, the island is home to the most remote airport on Planet Earth, more than 2,300 miles west of the coast of Chile. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A few weeks of work and four plane rides later, I was there. And it was everything I hoped it would be. Amazing people, eerie history, majestic views and wine-fueled Polynesian dancing. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">On my third afternoon, a few fellow travelers and I rode horses across a northeastern strip of the island. Accelerated by our tongue-clicking guide, who would spur us on by whipping a slim stick into the rumps of our steeds, we loped up the biggest hill on Rapa Nui. The highest point was marked by a rock cairn, and every degree of the circular view around it was dominated by an endless wall of sapphire ocean water.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">You could see the whole island, green and barren. Maoi statues, facing inward, looked over sites where settlements once stood. Patches of young trees formed a few small stripes over otherwise empty grassland. The isolation was overwhelming. It was an island stripped of its resources, stark and independent in the sprawling desert that is the Pacific Ocean.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Rapa Nui was once the proud home of 15,000 Polynesian inhabitants and a vibrant, powerful culture. Using logs to roll gargantuan pieces of rock down from a central quarry, the islanders managed to construct some of the world’s most awe-inspiring, pre-industrial wonders – the Moai statues, towering stone heads that guarded the civilization and displayed its prominence.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">However, construction of the statues eventually led to the decimation of the island’s natural resources. Civil wars broke out, violence and poverty reigned true and the population plummeted. By the late 19<sup>th</sup>Century, historical reports account for little more than 100 natives living on the island, all clinging on to the last threads of a civilization that metaphorically (and, by some reports, literally) ate itself.&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Comparing my last Pacific island destination with my future one presents a sharp contrast of symbolic irony. One is a haunting showcase of the indomitable human desire to consume and conquer, a contained and cautionary tale of the apocalyptic gluttony of our own species. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The other is an exhibit of isolated natural harmony, where species and plants show off the vibrant results of evolution free from human and continental influences. It is a place of both beauty and biology, where the field of evolutionary science has made great strides observing an ecosystem at lonely peace with itself. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Despite that harmony, Darwin’s islands are also places of great fragility. As the archipelago becomes exposed to modern travel capabilities, and the resulting boats and planes full of hungry tourists (of which I am one) introduce harsh continental realities to its shores, many have become worried. Thousands of minds in the fields of science, politics and money have joined together to prevent and repeal the devastating biological invasions introduced by humanity. They work because they have a fear. They do not wish to see the tortoise and finch-clad hills of the Galapagos evolve into the treeless, statue-dotted grasslands of Rapa Nui.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>Conor Devitthttps://plus.google.com/106640554595463976657noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-70204474434267790512014-04-21T12:53:00.001-07:002015-03-16T18:34:54.558-07:00Jatun Sacha Biological Reserve - Galápagos Islands<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/92430331" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="450"></iframe> <br /><a href="http://vimeo.com/92430331">Jatun Sacha Biological Reserve- Galápagos Islands</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user20890295">Stevee Chapman</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br /><br /><b>By Stevee Chapman</b><br /><br />As the second most populated island in the Galápagos, San Cristobal is a popular stop for travelers who have made their way to Darwin’s famous islands. <br /><br />However, between the 5,400 permanent residents and numerous tourists visiting the island each year, there are multiple opportunities for quarantine regulations to be ignored. This allows new species of plants and animals to be introduced to the island every day. <br /><br />While the Galápagos has some of the highest percentages of biodiversity in the world, introduction of new species to the island can wreck havoc to the islands’ ecosystem. This poses an especially big problem because a very high percentage of species (80% of birds, 97% of reptiles, more than 30% of plants and more than 20% of marine life) are exclusive to the Galapagos, and can be found nowhere else on earth.<br /><br />In fact, introduction of new species by humans is directly correlated with the drastic decrease, and in some cases extinction, of different geneses of the famous giant tortoises found throughout the islands. <br /><br />Many of the exotic species that threaten the island’s flora and fauna begin their rapid takeover through agriculture in the highlands of San Cristobal. Yet the highlands, although an essential aspect of the island’s delicate eco-system, have been almost completely ignored by other conservation and government agencies.<br /><br />Luckily for San Cristóbal, Ecuador’s Jatun Sacha Foundation has a biological reserve deep in the highlands where volunteers come to make a difference. With their hard work in different areas of conservation, such as reforestation, Jatun’s Sacha’s volunteers are revitalizing the island from the ground up. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Brett Atwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14833796970383531832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-16402125669063518692014-03-26T09:14:00.000-07:002014-03-26T09:14:26.350-07:00One street, three social classes3-22-14<br /><br />Christine Rushton, Murrow Backpack Journalist<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xuhBwbeZEaU/UzJzKGiLkDI/AAAAAAAAAUg/5OD0OglJCKY/s1600/DSC_0857.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xuhBwbeZEaU/UzJzKGiLkDI/AAAAAAAAAUg/5OD0OglJCKY/s1600/DSC_0857.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An image of an Antiguan street in Guatemala. Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><style><!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} p {mso-margin-top-alt:auto; margin-right:0in; mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --></style> Consider the image of an Antiguan street on a Saturday in Guatemala.<br /><br />On one corner sits a native woman adorned in a wool shawl; the jewel-toned design reflects the pattern indicative of her village, and the attire advertises the similarly colored scarves she sells.<br /><br />Across the cobblestone path stands an American tourist bending down to hand a purple-clad Guatemalan girl 20 Quetzals. He takes the three handmade headbands he bought, and then points to his camera, indicating he would like a photo of her.<br /><br />Blocking traffic, a bride and groom step out of a black waxed BMW in the center of the street. A trail of bridesmaids and groomsmen parade in the direction of the centuries-old Catholic Church.<br /><br />Poor.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Privileged. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Unaware.<br /><br />Heading into the last day of reporting in Guatemala, I opted to put down my pen and focus on uninterrupted observation. Photos ceased toward the end of the day, allowing the memories to burn into my mind.<br /><br />Tourists and vendors flock to Antigua, a city built by the Mayans and preserved by the money visitors pump in to the local shops. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>Looking at the volcanoes surrounding the city, I thought about the people who shared their stories with me throughout the week. Like the mountainous beasts with which they share their home, the beauty of their faces contain the turmoil bubbling within.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gJAwTxg35UM/UzJy92mTtnI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/Ei-4rfGMIVY/s1600/DSC_0619.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gJAwTxg35UM/UzJy92mTtnI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/Ei-4rfGMIVY/s1600/DSC_0619.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corn tortillas for sale at a doorway in Antigua.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G8UoJ-TOp8M/UzJy76SUvbI/AAAAAAAAAUI/0_Fgj9myCfk/s1600/DSC_0627.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G8UoJ-TOp8M/UzJy76SUvbI/AAAAAAAAAUI/0_Fgj9myCfk/s1600/DSC_0627.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Workers repair the roofs of Antigua to maintain its quality. Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br />One man, Miguel, I met on the curb beneath Antigua’s famous yellow clock arch.<br /><br />He sat in the quiet of the afternoon with his sun-kissed wrinkled fingers curled around a pointed paintbrush. The palette balanced on his left knee held blends of purples, reds and yellows. Words on his grey cotton shirt read “Old Navy.”<br /><br />Squatting to flip through his work displayed against the cement wall, I took the moment to trace with my eyes each stenciled line slightly hidden beneath brush strokes. Within the dried flecks lay an image of his home.<br /><br />I didn’t notice the hand until it lifted the cardboard canvas away. Miguel wanted to share his story with me. Smiling with each foreign word, he and I treaded through a conversation mixed with Spanish and English.<br /><br />Antigua has been his home since birth, he said. He has painted on the streets in order to survive for the last 13 years.<br /><br />But, unlike the artists across the street marketing prints masquerading as originals, Miguel sells stories. In Spanish calligraphy, he wrote the history of the arch in the painting I bought on the canvasback.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--6bBbtcjtgw/UzJzN8a_A9I/AAAAAAAAAUo/Pnn0AWx7qCY/s1600/DSC_0651.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--6bBbtcjtgw/UzJzN8a_A9I/AAAAAAAAAUo/Pnn0AWx7qCY/s1600/DSC_0651.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miguel writing the history of the painting for me. Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table>&nbsp; <br />Then he signed and dated, allowing the ink to bleed into the fibers like his face burning into my memory.<br /><br />Back in the United States, I will put Miguel’s painting next to the canvas I collected from Cuba.<br /><br />Each shows the faces of those I’ve traced; each shows the faces of those I will soon outline.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R73cuUw_Xe8/UzJzF_dMeUI/AAAAAAAAAUY/TzaOkQ3ciDI/s1600/DSC_0802.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R73cuUw_Xe8/UzJzF_dMeUI/AAAAAAAAAUY/TzaOkQ3ciDI/s1600/DSC_0802.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr align="right"><td class="tr-caption">Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Christine Rushtonhttps://plus.google.com/108932808891819843411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-16575138728518854042014-03-24T08:24:00.000-07:002014-03-24T08:24:21.061-07:00Feeding the children of Guatemala3-20-14<br /><br />Christine Rushton, Murrow Backpack Journalist<br /><br />﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PCDLnCnEatE/UyuNig5cLqI/AAAAAAAAAT4/0WBRkGQqjJI/s1600/DSC_0563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PCDLnCnEatE/UyuNig5cLqI/AAAAAAAAAT4/0WBRkGQqjJI/s1600/DSC_0563.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This Guatemalan baby&nbsp;is recovering&nbsp;from malnutrition.&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />He weighed 15 pounds at 18-months-old. Babies his age average 25 pounds. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />Supporting the head of the malnourished Guatemalan child, I listened as his caregivers explained the stinted start to his life. Children in Guatemala often go without the proper diet for growth in their critical first few years; money is too scarce. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />Tears in her eyes, Hearts in Motion volunteer Janet Holloway asked one of the nurses, “Will they be OK?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span><o:p></o:p><br /><br />Until the brain develops, only time will tell. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />Nurses and volunteers at the HIM nutrition clinic provide a community center for the local children in Gualan, Guatemala, so that the next generation can receive help in the early days of development. Once a week, the center invites about 100 children under the age of 12 in for a group meal. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />Giggling at my camera as I held it up to take a photo, one boy cleared his portion of watermelon, beans and rice. That plate of food may be the only he receives that day. <br />﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UlCt_Y0o1AM/UyuNX2NEEcI/AAAAAAAAAT0/greMAikingA/s1600/DSC_0518.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UlCt_Y0o1AM/UyuNX2NEEcI/AAAAAAAAAT0/greMAikingA/s1600/DSC_0518.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Guatemalan boy participates in the weekly feed at HIM's nutrition center.&nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><o:p></o:p><br /><br />Casey Leo, the HIM nutrition center coordinator, said many of the children sitting at the handmade wooden tables live in families that cannot afford balanced meals. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />“Some kids arrive with food leftover from their lunch still on their mouth, while others don’t get breakfast or dinner that day,” she said. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />Casey has lived in Guatemala for five-and-a-half years working with HIM. Accustomed to seeing the dire circumstances surrounding her home, she can focus on teaching the children manners they likely would not learn at home. <br />﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gzSPwNSs6iQ/UyuJK4cMR4I/AAAAAAAAATM/d8JFeniDxFU/s1600/DSC_0393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gzSPwNSs6iQ/UyuJK4cMR4I/AAAAAAAAATM/d8JFeniDxFU/s1600/DSC_0393.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gualan children wait behind the gates for the weekly HIM feed.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UCszFT8D4Go/UyuLJe9grgI/AAAAAAAAATo/ywBoDODWkYM/s1600/DSC_0447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UCszFT8D4Go/UyuLJe9grgI/AAAAAAAAATo/ywBoDODWkYM/s1600/DSC_0447.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local children line up to wash for their meal.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><o:p></o:p><br /><br />Students and volunteers on the HIM trip helped line the children up to wash their hands. Using a basin to pour bottled water over their hands, each one took a turn scrubbing off the grime of the Gualan streets. <br />﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cQAprTFW7zI/UyuLIQ1svjI/AAAAAAAAATg/dbSHWvNn2Fo/s1600/DSC_0480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cQAprTFW7zI/UyuLIQ1svjI/AAAAAAAAATg/dbSHWvNn2Fo/s1600/DSC_0480.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Children at the Zacapa HIM nutrition center wash before eating.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p>Tables then filled as girls, boys, infants, and pre-teens took seats to wait their turn. After a group prayer, each received their meal and a plastic cup brimming with rice milk. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />Together they cleared and thanked the staff when the meal finished. The process took under an hour, but each walked away full bellies and clean hands. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />The final task for the week completed, the crew took the opportunity to pull the children around in red wagons, rock the babies to sleep, and pass around a coconut from the tree outside to try. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />For me, I found a quiet spot to sit at the edge of the property. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />Overlooking the valley below, I took pause to reflect as a human, not as a journalist. The faces locked in my camera’s memory cards have real hardship in their lives. They have stories, but they also are the story. <o:p></o:p><br /><br />Volunteers who make trips like the HIM crew make a difference, but the solution lies in cultural change. Economics, politics and opportunity all support futures for children like the 100 who get to enter the wrought iron gates once a week for a meal. <br /><br />If he survives, the baby I held in my arms may someday build a life. <o:p></o:p><br />﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sQNHJYXaGbg/UyuJQneYRzI/AAAAAAAAATU/WyWyxC5PhSI/s1600/DSC_0437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sQNHJYXaGbg/UyuJQneYRzI/AAAAAAAAATU/WyWyxC5PhSI/s1600/DSC_0437.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The HIM nutrition center in Gualan, Guatemala.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Christine Rushtonhttps://plus.google.com/108932808891819843411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-41872577209008950212014-03-20T09:08:00.002-07:002014-03-20T09:08:37.765-07:00Always learning "more"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>3-19-14<br /><br />Christine Rushton, Murrow College Backpack Journalist<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eTO-uZw_rYA/Uypazly1kUI/AAAAAAAAASI/wXir9tzAr68/s1600/DSC_1312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eTO-uZw_rYA/Uypazly1kUI/AAAAAAAAASI/wXir9tzAr68/s1600/DSC_1312.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeremiah, 8, at the HIM physical therapy clinic in Zacapa.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">His eyes locked on the blue bag containing the sour gummy worms. Unable to speak, he lifted his hands, clustered the fingers on each and tapped the tips together. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“More.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jeremiah dangled the red worm between his teeth as his mother applauded his first attempt at American Sign Language. At 8 years old, he had never received testing for his hearing. When the speech and hearing team from WSU noticed his unresponsive behavior, they took him to the HIM clinic in Zacapa. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lBiflu_l8s4/UypZuJ1VryI/AAAAAAAAAR8/5Yp83IwOP58/s1600/DSC_1301.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lBiflu_l8s4/UypZuJ1VryI/AAAAAAAAAR8/5Yp83IwOP58/s1600/DSC_1301.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeremiah enjoying his red gummy worm.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The sign on the door says, ‘50 Quetzals, or see the boss,’” HIM physical therapist Nancy Winiecki said. The cost, which equals about $6.50, "keeps the lights on, but the physical therapy is more important.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paying with watermelons, mangoes, chickens, and hugs, Nancy’s patients offer what they can in exchange for physical therapy sessions. HIM helps her run one of the only clinics in the region. Patients needing the treatments after surgeries and injuries would otherwise have to travel three hours to Guatemala City, a trek most can’t afford. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lacking in medical knowledge, I had no inkling that Jeremiah had a profound loss of hearing when he galloped toward me this morning. Only his small hand in mine and toothy smile caught my attention. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“The reason deaf people put their ear to speakers is so they can feel the vibration,” WSU speech and hearing student Hannah Bowley said. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hannah helped teach Jeremiah the sign for “more,” and with our Spanish translator, provided his mother with the information on how to keep improving her son’s communication. She knew Jeremiah had trouble hearing, but did not have the audiogram needed to enroll him into the local school for the deaf. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, he can get the help he needs. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jmoapbDBWgA/UypaJUtJihI/AAAAAAAAASE/twxyLVPPp00/s1600/DSC_1163.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jmoapbDBWgA/UypaJUtJihI/AAAAAAAAASE/twxyLVPPp00/s1600/DSC_1163.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Amy Meredith evaluating a Guatemalan boy.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Observing the evaluations with Dr. Amy Meredith, a professor at WSU, I met mother after mother dedicated to helping their disabled child regardless of the time and effort. Darwin, a young boy with cerebral palsy, comes in to the clinic to strengthen his body and mind. </span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">﻿</span></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cO1yaRS-VBY/Uypi4rTK0kI/AAAAAAAAASs/6XzjHopgVzQ/s1600/DSC_1539.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cO1yaRS-VBY/Uypi4rTK0kI/AAAAAAAAASs/6XzjHopgVzQ/s1600/DSC_1539.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darwin with his mom playing in the clinic.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Having fought fires, observed operations and crouched in a burning dump this week, I felt prepared for playing with children. But a determined Darwin took me out when he climbed his ramp and pegged me in the head with a foam yellow ball. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I believe the industry professionals call it combat reporting. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ar_KHP6oYaw/Uyph6IOLT7I/AAAAAAAAASc/mBk9MPLh96M/s1600/DSC_1614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ar_KHP6oYaw/Uyph6IOLT7I/AAAAAAAAASc/mBk9MPLh96M/s1600/DSC_1614.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darwin moments after nailing me in the head with a ball.&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Flipping through my notepad with the Guatemalan blood-orange sunset setting on the horizon, I stopped at an interview with an HIM volunteer, Arlyn Buck. She is a Guatemalan native who grew up in the United States. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Her mother, she said, would fast at night just to feed her children when they had no money. Her philosophy: Never forget your home and always give back to those who most need a hand. </span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">﻿</span></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7stiAeAPb0w/UypnrYIyFvI/AAAAAAAAAS4/qHOPxbVMpFc/s1600/DSC_1666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7stiAeAPb0w/UypnrYIyFvI/AAAAAAAAAS4/qHOPxbVMpFc/s1600/DSC_1666.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="right">Christine Rushton | Murrow College</div></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿<o:p></o:p></div></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div>Christine Rushtonhttps://plus.google.com/108932808891819843411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-77820135389352628082014-03-19T08:41:00.002-07:002014-03-19T08:42:57.583-07:00Relieving dental pain in hills of Guatemala﻿3-18-14<br />Christine Rushton, Murrow College Backpack Journalist<br /><br />﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ldpZUz9h20I/UykTB6k6rXI/AAAAAAAAARo/GSZ6u-qWYA0/s1600/DSC_0728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ldpZUz9h20I/UykTB6k6rXI/AAAAAAAAARo/GSZ6u-qWYA0/s1600/DSC_0728.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A young Guatemalan woman in the hills of Zacapa.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Face wrinkled with the lines of life, the Guatemalan mother cupped her daughter’s face with her hands to whisper one word.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hermosa.” Beautiful. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just seconds before, I had bent down between them to share the photo I had captured of the woman’s daughter. Living with Down Syndrome, the 35-year-old turned toward her mother as the creases along her eyes crinkled with a smile.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was the first time she had seen her own face. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PAIj5UEU2I4/UykSISSHlvI/AAAAAAAAARg/uI1CPXL96fo/s1600/DSC_0725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PAIj5UEU2I4/UykSISSHlvI/AAAAAAAAARg/uI1CPXL96fo/s1600/DSC_0725.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Karen with HIM hugs a young woman waiting at the dental clinic. Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a mountain village two hours from Zacapa, the Hearts in Motion dental crew set up a triage clinic to pull teeth for the locals on Tuesday. The team stood in the bed of barred-in pickup trucks to drive an hour up the rocky road. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Guatemalan woman who asked for the photo had arrived that afternoon for help relieving her aching tooth. She and about 40 other locals gathered at the shed, the largest building available for the doctors to pull teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jumping from station to station, I noticed mouths of babies, mouths of adults and mouths of the elderly all filled with rot. Age did not seem to factor into the issue. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dr. Steve Woodard, an oral surgeon from Spokane, Wash., explained that the Guatemalans put sugar in their water and eat a diet of sugar-laden foods. Soda in the country is less expensive than water, and money drives their decisions. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jQijot8I-ic/UykLqR7ihsI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/EhHjJNp7Yro/s1600/DSC_0611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jQijot8I-ic/UykLqR7ihsI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/EhHjJNp7Yro/s1600/DSC_0611.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Steve Woodard with a patient.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">His first patient, a girl clutching a brown teddy bear, opened her mouth to reveal four rotted teeth in the front of her top row. Dr. Woodard pulled them all. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For the village the team visited today, corn is the primary source of food; corn contains a high percentage of natural sugar. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fVZYbmye1hU/UykOTL89NWI/AAAAAAAAARA/vl4-CwWgI_U/s1600/DSC_0604.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fVZYbmye1hU/UykOTL89NWI/AAAAAAAAARA/vl4-CwWgI_U/s1600/DSC_0604.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The triage dental clinic in the mountains.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">﻿</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the bus trip home, Dr. John Miller shared his experience as an oral surgeon volunteering in the country. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Those kids today didn’t even know why they were there,” he said. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dr. Miller narrowed the dental problem to four contributing factors: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1. Low price of soda. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2. Limited access to dentistry. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3. Lack of education on proper hygiene.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4. No money for toothbrushes and toothpaste. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The people do not have the resources to preserve their dental hygiene. Those that have permanent teeth pulled have to rely on mushed or soft food for nutrients the rest of their life. T</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">he doctors leave knowing they soothed temporary pain.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But as Dr. Miller commented in reference to the shortcomings of the dentists’ efforts, the economy and education system does not meet the need. </span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">﻿</span></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QtOyah1dRDQ/UykRgtiTrII/AAAAAAAAARY/32Vm9LuMXCA/s1600/DSC_0999.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QtOyah1dRDQ/UykRgtiTrII/AAAAAAAAARY/32Vm9LuMXCA/s1600/DSC_0999.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mountain village in Zacapa.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">﻿<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div>Christine Rushtonhttps://plus.google.com/108932808891819843411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-33942088596383912572014-03-17T19:30:00.000-07:002014-03-18T09:11:59.627-07:00Lecture gone live: fighting a fire3-17-14<br><br>Christine Rushton, Murrow Backpack Journalist<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W7p1sskBNuY/UyeW90mDtyI/AAAAAAAAAQc/l08Vmc1wvNA/s1600/DSC_1628.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W7p1sskBNuY/UyeW90mDtyI/AAAAAAAAAQc/l08Vmc1wvNA/s1600/DSC_1628.JPG" height="266" width="400"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A&nbsp; flame left from a fire Monday in Zacapa, Guatemala.&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Crouching in smoldering ash, I felt sweat pour down my face. Smoke rose around my lens as the army soldier to my right pointed at my feet. The soles of my tennis shoes had started to melt. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Monday started when I branched off from the HIM crews and tagged along with Spokane Fire Chief Bruce Holloway. He travels to Guatemala with his wife to train local volunteer firefighters and military crews for the worst. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Taking notes in my fold-down school chair, I expected to spend the day following Bruce’s lectures at the station in Zacapa. But an emergency call summoned the fire crew, and the lesson went live. </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PVPZwdRE8bQ/UyeU5DNWXRI/AAAAAAAAAQI/3NYg8ruQGQc/s1600/DSC_0063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PVPZwdRE8bQ/UyeU5DNWXRI/AAAAAAAAAQI/3NYg8ruQGQc/s1600/DSC_0063.JPG" height="266" width="400"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The team prepares the fire hose.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table>&nbsp;<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A field in the downtown region had caught fire and the 95-degree heat and wind fed the burn. Bruce said the Guatemalan people burn trash, and often a spark will jump to the dry fields. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With only two donated fire engines and a few ambulances to serve 65 communities, the team of volunteers and visiting Guatemalan army members piled on with shovels and machetes. Scarred by the flames that had nearly finished smoldering, the field where crops once stood now lay dead. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bruce commanded the team to dig trenches and snuff out lingering flames</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">. In the brush, he stopped to tell me about the power of changing winds.&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;</span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M-9o4y6TfRk/UyeXKmF_gOI/AAAAAAAAAQk/5xPiys0UM_w/s1600/DSC_1711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M-9o4y6TfRk/UyeXKmF_gOI/AAAAAAAAAQk/5xPiys0UM_w/s1600/DSC_1711.JPG" height="266" width="400"></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guatemalan army soldiers beat down smoldering flames.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">&nbsp;</div></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yAOY4lYlcR8/UyeUg3dhc2I/AAAAAAAAAQA/MaQHVSNYCsc/s1600/DSC_0004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yAOY4lYlcR8/UyeUg3dhc2I/AAAAAAAAAQA/MaQHVSNYCsc/s1600/DSC_0004.JPG" height="266" width="400"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One Guatemalan soldier digs trenches in the field.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When firefighters in Arizona died last year, Bruce said the winds had shifted in a thunderstorm 180-degrees. The crew did not have time to escape.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Always fight the fire from back to front, he said. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But Bruce hangs on to what firefighters call “gallows humor;” they joke about the flames that steal the oxygen of life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“We are careful around other people, but it’s the only way to keep our sanity,” he said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The volunteer crews survive on fundraising and donations. The people face fires due mostly to people burning trash in uncontrolled settings.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Juan Alvarez, a volunteer at the Zacapa station, said the city once provided 2,500 quetzals a month, but hasn’t since September 2013. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--fmtYwrrw2Q/UyeUeHSA6UI/AAAAAAAAAP4/7r8qqftrbjo/s1600/DSC_0100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--fmtYwrrw2Q/UyeUeHSA6UI/AAAAAAAAAP4/7r8qqftrbjo/s1600/DSC_0100.JPG" height="266" width="400"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A woman firefighter douses a stump.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After two hours fighting, the team reduced the threat to steam. Despite a thick layer of soot and sweat coating each soldier’s skin, smiles stretched across faces. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My legs had cuts. My freckles had disappeared underneath black debris. But my camera had filled with photos proving the determination of a dedicated team. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Never doubt the heart of a volunteer on the front lines. </span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bJyHiMzwX3M/UyeW4AzRaJI/AAAAAAAAAQU/MUGmbKhct_o/s1600/DSC_1608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bJyHiMzwX3M/UyeW4AzRaJI/AAAAAAAAAQU/MUGmbKhct_o/s1600/DSC_1608.JPG" height="266" width="400"></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="right">Christine Rushton | Murrow College</div></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></div></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">&nbsp;</div>Christine Rushtonhttps://plus.google.com/108932808891819843411noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-70041011454490733622014-03-17T13:48:00.001-07:002014-03-17T14:05:32.516-07:00Cleft palates, sweaty scrubs and healed smiles<span style="font-family: Calibri;">3-16-14</span><br><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christine Rushton, Murrow Backpack Journalist</span><br><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3U16DUnk9Uk/UyZvXl-de4I/AAAAAAAAAPc/zb53OPqtZPU/s1600/DSC_1780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3U16DUnk9Uk/UyZvXl-de4I/AAAAAAAAAPc/zb53OPqtZPU/s1600/DSC_1780.JPG" height="266" width="400"></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Victor Ramirez.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All 37 pounds of 7-year-old Victor Ramirez twisted against the nurses’ hold. In his anesthesia-hazed mind, the Guatemalan boy jerked out of his IV drip as his face contorted in pain. </span><br><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Victor came in to Hearts in Motion’s temporary hospital for surgery to fix his cleft palate. With the help of HIM volunteer doctor Ken Stein, Victor will now have the ability to chew his food. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br><br><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WLzKM84_zyM/UyZsHPqyq6I/AAAAAAAAAO0/sazH4_TeIRY/s1600/DSC_1430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WLzKM84_zyM/UyZsHPqyq6I/AAAAAAAAAO0/sazH4_TeIRY/s1600/DSC_1430.JPG" height="266" width="400"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Ken Stein administers a local anesthetic.&nbsp; &nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Watching the surgery in scrubs four sizes too big and with my camera in hand, I realized I would not often get the opportunity to observe a working operating room. The next two hours became critical for both me and the boy on the table.</span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dr. Stein, a plastic surgeon from Chicago, stitched sutures in the non-air conditioned 100-degree heat to help Guatemalans like Victor who have disfigured lips and palates. Without the surgery, the patients would continue to struggle with eating and breathing. </span><br><br><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3kZa2BWy6hU/UyZsAqdRzlI/AAAAAAAAAOw/RSUqzf3JXao/s1600/DSC_1544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3kZa2BWy6hU/UyZsAqdRzlI/AAAAAAAAAOw/RSUqzf3JXao/s1600/DSC_1544.JPG" height="266" width="400"></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Victor Ramirez.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><o:p></o:p></span>&nbsp;</div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Forced to mash meals between their fingers and push what remains into their throat, patients often suffer malnutrition.</span><br><br><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; tab-stops: 425.25pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before I met Victor, I shook hands with a Guatemalan girl named Heidy Avalos who had successfully recovered from her surgery four years ago. Her case was so advanced she had to travel to Spokane, Wash., to visit another HIM volunteer Dr. Mark Paxton.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; tab-stops: 425.25pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Janet Holloway, Heidy’s host mom in Spokane, said she remembers when Heidy stayed with them for her surgery. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; tab-stops: 425.25pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“She would take a French fry, smash it with her fingers, stuff it on the roof of her mouth, and swallow,” Janet said. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; tab-stops: 425.25pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For Heidy, the worst is over; for Victor, the recovery has just begun. </span><br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eOkaF14669I/UyZvJ_djh_I/AAAAAAAAAPU/HPYA3fssPTs/s1600/DSC_1611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eOkaF14669I/UyZvJ_djh_I/AAAAAAAAAPU/HPYA3fssPTs/s1600/DSC_1611.JPG" height="266" width="400"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The start of Victor's cleft palate surgery.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; tab-stops: 425.25pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In post-operation, the nurses shuffled Victor to his bed as they sterilized the 1940’s equipment they had to borrow in the make-shift operating room. I followed, camera in hand, to better understand what the children have to endure just to live. <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span><br><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hours later, shirts drenched in sweat, supplies strewn about the hospital halls, the HIM volunteers set out for the hotel. But before hitting the cobblestone streets, I stole one last glance at Victor. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; tab-stops: 425.25pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The photo I took of him by his mother speaks more words than I can write. </span><br><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xXRKaqzyrWo/UyZw5p0Kv3I/AAAAAAAAAPo/1HAMhMQP35A/s1600/DSC_1788.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xXRKaqzyrWo/UyZw5p0Kv3I/AAAAAAAAAPo/1HAMhMQP35A/s1600/DSC_1788.JPG" height="266" width="400"></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Victor and his mother.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><br><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div></div>Christine Rushtonhttps://plus.google.com/108932808891819843411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-60180999504258378742014-03-15T18:26:00.001-07:002014-03-15T18:26:17.052-07:00In trash, searching for survival<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3-15-14</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christine Rushton, Murrow College Backpack Journalist</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jr9_IcHFSG4/UyTdAIEV8BI/AAAAAAAAANE/DxjoFnh2weE/s1600/DSC_1649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jr9_IcHFSG4/UyTdAIEV8BI/AAAAAAAAANE/DxjoFnh2weE/s1600/DSC_1649.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dumps in Zacapa, Guatemala.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;Christine Rushton | Murrow College</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Squatting in a heap of rotting trash, I lifted my camera to focus on a young Guatemala girl. She paused at my movement and tightly clutched the treasure she had just found: a discarded, teal plastic bottle ring. Her feet, bare and smeared with the black ash, rested on shards of broken glass and decomposing fruit. <o:p></o:p></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EBFZalRtAjQ/UyTfMpi4JjI/AAAAAAAAAOA/CJPrhLtljUo/s1600/DSC_1671.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EBFZalRtAjQ/UyTfMpi4JjI/AAAAAAAAAOA/CJPrhLtljUo/s1600/DSC_1671.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="right">Christine Rushton | Murrow College</div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Against a background of people scouring, collecting and burning garbage in the 95-degree weather, she looked into my lens and smiled. </span><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-de-ra1XNPqo/UyTejPSucrI/AAAAAAAAANw/D-6JFRrldN4/s1600/DSC_1668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-de-ra1XNPqo/UyTejPSucrI/AAAAAAAAANw/D-6JFRrldN4/s1600/DSC_1668.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The volunteers working with Hearts in Motion to bring supplies and aid to the people in Guatemala know the need outweighs what the team can offer. However, one student on the trip said if one life is changed, then the trip was worth the effort. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Karen Scheeringa-Parra, the executive director of HIM, said, “It’s not about the Tylenol, it’s about the relationship.” She explained that showing people compassion lasts longer in memory than any medicine. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">One HIM team on Saturday put together lunches of black bean and rice sandwiches to bring for the families living in the dumps. The line of Guatemalans following the buses they knew carried food stretched down the plastic-lined road. For them, a meal usually consists of the leftovers they can dig out of the city’s trash. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A veteran-volunteer for HIM looked out at the landscape and asked me if I could write about this experience. He said photos tell only part of the story; pictures can’t capture the smell. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ld_6y-UDXaw/UyTbbXYRCuI/AAAAAAAAAMU/Yq8au2QjERU/s1600/DSC_1584.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ld_6y-UDXaw/UyTbbXYRCuI/AAAAAAAAAMU/Yq8au2QjERU/s1600/DSC_1584.JPG" height="265" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Breathing in the aroma of putrid decomposition and burning plastic, I shoved down the urge to cry. The Guatemalan girl still smiles despite her unsanitary living conditions. As I watched her walk to put her new discovery in the tarp-covered shelter she calls home, I realized that smile reflected the hope to which she must cling. </span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></div>Christine Rushtonhttps://plus.google.com/108932808891819843411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2588652265420385847.post-52450060549543241372014-03-14T18:18:00.001-07:002014-04-27T13:01:16.732-07:00Welcomed by a Guatemalan fire<br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3-14-14</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christine Rushton, Murrow College Backpack Journalist</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the world opens to welcome a global community, journalists gain the opportunity to explore cultures beyond the limits of their backyards. Foreign reporting has existed successfully since the days of Edward R. Murrow reporting from London. However, students breaking into the industry have to combat a dwindling availability of jobs. The Murrow College at WSU offered me the chance to enter the embargoed borders of Cuba in May 2013, and now I venture with Hearts in Motion to Guatemala. During my 10 days on the ground, I will blog, interview the doctors and students performing surgeries on the locals and report on the issues. Follow along as I pursue the visual and written long-form journalism I hope to soon call my career. </span></div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/92803619" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="450"></iframe> <br /><a href="http://vimeo.com/92803619">Rushton Guatemala 3-23-14</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user27268995">Christine Rushton</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fire hung in a rim on the horizon. Tipped in blood red, the wings of the airplane tilted in descent toward the valley’s mouth, noted for the nearby volcanos. The ground drew closer; the flames climbed higher. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3oHhcGyW8nw/UyOSvNY0PHI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/4PrrXpbzakI/s1600/DSC_1368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3oHhcGyW8nw/UyOSvNY0PHI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/4PrrXpbzakI/s1600/DSC_1368.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="right">Christine Rushton | Murrow College</div></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was 5:30 a.m. on Friday and the plane leading toward Guatemala City had just made the dawn-hour landing. Flat ground filled with litter-strewn streets seemed to cower against the highlands surrounding the city. With my group of students and professionals with Hearts in Motion (HIM), we started the trek from the airport to Zacapa, the area in which we would spend most of our time working on the medical mission trip. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">About 19 HIM volunteers crammed in a bus meant for 12 for the three-hour journey. But one side-look at the Guatemalan public transport with people hanging off the sides just to catch a ride, and I knew we fit in. Just like when I traveled to Cuba, I put the peoples’ behavior in the perspective of the limited resources upon which they must rely. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />﻿<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oBl7dFjY3zE/UyOUcUO3K0I/AAAAAAAAAKk/JeLMMjkQnEk/s1600/DSC_1358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oBl7dFjY3zE/UyOUcUO3K0I/AAAAAAAAAKk/JeLMMjkQnEk/s1600/DSC_1358.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="right">Christine Rushton | Murrow College</div></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For one man, this meant hiding under a blanket in the back of a truck. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I noticed the man as we headed out of Guatemala City. Truck bed teaming with rubber tires, the brown-stained blanket set in the corner rustled slightly. His head peeked out when he adjusted his position, but I’d already witnessed the attempt to catch a free ride. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Heading into a week of observing people <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>support solutions to medical, construction, dental, or social problems Guatemalans face, I know this man isn’t the last I will see take a dangerous chance. As I learned in Cuba and will continue to learn in Guatemala, people in underdeveloped</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;countries often turn to a concept foreign to our own: risking life is worth gaining life. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;</span></div>Christine Rushtonhttps://plus.google.com/108932808891819843411noreply@blogger.com0